Black Angel
by O'Donnell
Summary: Early morning on a Thames Bridge a black angel saves the life of a girl with a backpack and a secret. There are violins - but not romantic ones. Adventure. One shot that might yet become the start of a story.


k

 _Black Angel_

Her first thought was that it was an angel. An angel with black wings come to save her from death.

It was only when the angel's hands bit painfully into her arms and hauled her back from the edge of the abyss, as it groaned with effort and swore fiercely in equal measure, that she realised it was just a man. A tall slim man with an androgynous angel's face, but just a man nevertheless.

And the wings were not wings, but the billowing skirts of a black coat whipped up by the wind around him. She was still not sure about the opal shining eyes slanting down at her with a look of shuttered concentration and demonic will power. She was never, ever, sure about those eyes, even long afterwards.

And she never knew how it happened. One moment she was leaning peacefully over the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, sucking in the fresh early morning air and relishing the fact that here she was, in the quiet and magical setting of central London at 3am, enjoying the atmosphere, feeling exhilarated and cleansed, tired and yet utterly relaxed.

The next she was being pounced upon by two men whose hard hands and urgent energy were trying to shake her out of her backpack and steal…..what? Anything they could? Or the very treasure that meant the world to her from inside her haversack?

She started to fight, to fight like a small angry demon. Her attackers were not put off, though. Even when she starting screaming and shouting and flailing. At any other time of day, in any other place, someone - anyone - would have come to her aid. But in the middle of Waterloo Bridge? At 3am on a Tuesday morning? There was no-one to hear or to aid. And somewhere in her mind she realised she was about to die.

But she did not stop screaming or struggling. Even when they lifted her onto the bridge parapet ready to drop her into those churning dark brown waters so far below. One man levered her body onto the parapet. The other grasped the shoulder straps of the haversack, and it was clear to her they were intending to drop her into the water whilst keeping hold of the backpack. Gravity would solve their problem for them as her weight dragged her out of the straps, and she would be plummeted into the water, dead and gone.

Her boots scrabbled on the top rail and she kicked and kept screaming, blind and dumb with panic.

And that was when her angel arrived. Not from Heaven, but from the other side of the bridge. Fast running footsteps, a roar of command.

"Let her go! Back off!"

The two assailants paused, half turned. Then the angel - her guardian angel - struck. One assailant was smacked hard on the jaw and reeled back. He let go of the haversack, and she catapulted forward and would have been over the side and into the water if the angel had not thrust out a hand and grabbed her by her anorak hood and arrested the fall with a jolt that jarred her very bones.

He dragged her backwards, as the other attacker shoved her forward. The angel shouted something, and with his free hand boxed the ears of the man balancing her on the edge of the world.

The angel's next strike was vicious as he simultaneously dragged her back and slithering down onto the pavement rather like landing a fish, and she shook there on the damp tarmac as he ruthlessly and rapidly grabbed both men and tipped them over the very edge they had tried to push her across, and ignored their cries as they fell, all whirring arms and legs, and then thudded into the water below.

"Are they….dead?" she stammered as her dark angel bent to lift her to her feet.

"Who knows? Who cares?" drawled her angel of deliverance in a detached dark brown public school voice. "Are you OK?"

"Fine," she said automatically, although she wasn't sure. "Are you?" He ignored her, lifting her by the elbows, propelling her towards the city, away from the concert halls and theatres of the South Bank. "Come on, move. We need to get you away from here before the police arrive and start asking stupid questions."

"Stupid?" she echoed, bemused.

"Yes, stupid. The police are."

She felt her legs moving along the pavement, but had no sensation of them carrying her weight. He was carrying her weight, she realised, with one arm around her waist and the other arm supporting her elbow, as she stumbled along quickly at his side, at his pace. He was tall, dark and handsome, she could see as she shot sideways glances at him, and there was a fresh cut on one high cheekbone. He look dark and dangerous, and a chill went through her.

But he took almost no notice of her except to propel her forward.

"Bit exposed on the bridge," he explained. "And we don't want police arriving and asking what those men were trying to steal; what you have in that backpack."

She stopped walking then, shocked, and looked up into his face .He did not return her look, or stop with her, simply lifted her smoothly off her feet again and kept walking, very fast. There was a glimmer of a smile so quick she thought she had imagined it. But he still did not meet her eyes and he did not stop.

They crossed Victoria Embankment below and only at the traffic lights at the corner of the Strand did he pause.

"Are you OK to stand now?" he asked. She nodded and smiled, but as soon as he let her go her knees buckled.

"Just reaction," he told her smoothly and grasped her arm again, lifting her. "Where are you heading?"

She flapped an arm up the slight hill before them, which he interpreted.

"Waldorf?" he asked, unimpressed, and she nodded.

"Think you need something to steady you before you go there," he commented, and steered her rapidly across and left along the Strand and through dark narrow alleys, by the side of a church and down some stairs.

"Where….?" she began.

"Crypt," he said unhelpfully, and opened a blue door.

Inside, a long narrow space of stone arches was full of plastic tables with oilskin cloths, people sitting on chairs, a coffee machine gurgling in one corner, a quiet hum of conversation, a refuge of light and warmth.

Her black angel steered her towards a table for two at one side and drew her down into a chair.

"Sit," he said, and went to the counter, spoke to the middle aged woman behind it, and waited while two white mugs of steaming hot drink were obtained. She forced her breathing and her pulse to quieten, looked properly and with something like wonder at her rescuer for the first time.

His height, distinctive looks and upright posture would have been eyecatching in their own right, but especially so when wearing that expensive stylish coat with it's distinctive high collar and red buttonhole. But the face above was itself arresting; roguish dark curls topped and contrasted with an ascetic face of sharp angles, a generous, almost feminine mouth, astonishing aslant eyes the colour of a winter sea storm. Once seen, never forgotten, she thought. A very dark angel indeed.

Who - and what - was he? And how and why had he come to her rescue?

He returned to her with the mugs. And she watched him move, a confident feline walk. Two policemen in high vis jackets at one table nodded a casual greeting, two scruffy girls who might have been homeless, sharing a drink between them, spoke to him as if he was a friend. He bent to talk briefly, took something from a pocket and gave it to them, and they nodded and looked away. A tall gaunt man sitting on his own called him 'Shezza' and the dark angel smiled and patted a shoulder.

"Hot chocolate," he said. "Good for shock."

He sat down opposite her and smiled, but she could see she only had half of his concentration; his peripheral vision was scanning the room.

"Thank you," she said, cupping her hands round the mug for warmth. "Where are we?"

"Church Crypt. All night coffee bar. The place to meet London's most interesting people."

He smiled briefly in a way he thought was reassuring and proceeded to turn his attention to her and look at her. A long, deliberate, expressionless assessment, she realised.

After a moment she squirmed and heard herself say: "Don't. Please don't."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like that." She looked up into those deep opal eyes. Who are you?"

"No-one of interest," he responded.

"Azrael, That's who you are," she said. "Azrael."

"I am no angel. Dark, black or otherwise."

She had not expected him to understand her comment. But he did, she saw. _Who was he?_

"No?" she argued. " Azrael has no aura, he carries his light within him. He has black hair that glistens with his inner light. A black cloak and black wings and brings comfort to all who need him. Sorry, but…is that not you?"

"I only wish it was," he said, amusement burring that dark brown voice. "But 'do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so some have unwittingly entertained angels.'" he quoted back at her.

She smiled at that, but was not quietened.

"You are that stranger. You came out of nowhere. You rescued me, you committed violence to save me. You might have killed two men for me; a stranger. Who are you?"

He smiled back at her, a fleeting glance, and looked away.

"No-one you would know," he replied. "It really doesn't matter. But I know who you are."

Without moving a muscle, something in his eyes and face changed and hardened. And that set, emotionless expression which had chilled her blood earlier was back.

He was about to say more when a hand dropped onto his shoulder and he froze.

"Sherlock! How good to see you!" The man standing by her angel's side was, appropriately enough, a priest. A young, slight man with a scholar's face wearing an old fashioned tweed jacket and a dog collar along with a warm smile.

"Good morning young lady!" the priest greeted her. "Any friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine," he said before turning to the angel. "Chess? Thursday? As usual?"

Waited for a brief nod in response, and he was gone.

"Mr Sherlock…" the girl hissed, now more confused than ever. "Who are you? And why does everyone here know you?"

" Natural magnetism," he smiled at her. "Like you. When you play."

"How do you know that?" she hissed.

"I deduced it. I deduced you." She stared into his eyes and he held her gaze.

"You are young and foreign. You try to present yourself as any ordinary student. But you are no student. Your jeans are from a trendy boutique neat Rome's Spanish Steps, your trainers cost £200 from Rutmans in Manhatten, and the anorak is limited edition Seasalt.

"But it is that haversack that gives you away. Anyone who knows backpacks will know yours is bespoke for a particular purpose; longer, deeper, wider than normal, and that the ordinary pockets on the sides surround an armoured mid section that holds something special. And holds it secretly. Your violin case.

"So you own - and therefore play - a fine and rare and expensive violin. The professional violinist's violin is a Guarneri, and therefore the violin that is now between you and that cheap plastic chair you are sitting on is a Guarneri worth several million pounds. Perhaps even a Pietro Guarneri. Yes?"

He did not wait for her to nod or even react, but continued:

"So why would you have that rare and beautiful and seriously expensive instrument? Because you yourself are also rare and beautiful? But of course." He paused, smiled.

She was starting to feel light headed and panicky again. _How did he know?_

"You speak English perfectly, but there is a slight accent. Russian certainly; from Minsk, perhaps? Why were you on Waterloo Bridge heading towards the city? Because you were coming back from - where? Not the National Theatre or the Movie Museum. A concert hall then. In concert at The Royal Festival Hall tonight was a young Russian virtuoso being heralded for great things. So. You were heading from the Royal Festival Hall.

"You stayed afterwards for a post performance party, radio and press interviews, to chat with new friends and contacts. And you left, inconspicuously alone, long after everyone else had gone, to walk back to your hotel; not very far, so perhaps an understandable lapse in personal security. That could have been catastrophic for you.

"So you are Alyssa Almedova. Good morning, Alyssa. I am Sherlock Holmes."

He held out a hand across the table, smiling properly now. And she smiled back and took the hand, grasped his long cool fingers in her own.

"Hello, Mr Sherlock. Pleased to meet you. I don't know how you know all that. I am amazed. And rescued. So thank you. However can I thank you?"

"Drink your chocolate," he said sternly. "And then I will deliver you to the safety of your hotel."

He hunched his shoulders and put his own mug to his lips.

"What are you doing walking alone in the city at this time of night?" she asked, intrigued.

"Just walking. It helps me think." He clicked out the last syllable firmly as if ending the conversation.

There was no answer to that, so she made none, They drank in silence, and when finished, he stood abruptly and said, brooking no argument:

"I will walk you back to your hotel. Make sure you are safe."

She thanked him but did not argue. He gave a brisk wave of farewell to the room as they left, and they stepped into the darkness. A wind had risen and the world was cold.

Aware of him pausing to check dark corners and the road behind them, she shivered and remembered anew what had happened. She settled the haversack more comfortably on her shoulders and instinctively took hold of the woollen sleeve nearest to her. She felt him pull away and then relax.

"Sorry!" she said.

"No. It's OK," he replied, and they walked quietly along together, past the shops and offices of the Strand and onto the Aldwych. At some point she found the courage to put her arm in his, and felt oddly reassured when he let her.

Her black angel stopped outside the impressive black and yellow frontage to the Edwardian marble hotel that is the Waldorf Astoria.

"I leave you here," he said formally. "Be more careful next time. That could have been merely a random attack. Try to have people with you if you are out so late again. You could get hurt. Your violin is as rare as it is valuable."

"How do you know about violins?"

"A quirky smile was directed down at her, and his eyes shone with something internal, some genuine personal feeling for the first time. She was breathless at the way it transformed his stern features.

"I play the violin."

He said it in such an amused voice all she could do was smile back and sway towards him, suddenly made boneless by his proximity, reluctant to allow the presence of his calm unemotional reassurance to leave her.

"That explains everything," she laughed softly. "I hoper that means you have your own Guarneri?"

"Could be."

But seriously!" - she laughed at the very idea - "How do I thank you for all you have done for me? "

"Oh, come," he purred. "What is a hot chocolate between friends?"

"I don't mean that - but thank you for it," she replied, suddenly serious. "How do I say thank you for saving my life?"

He started to turn away, uninterested in her little speech. But her hand on his arm stopped him. He stood stock still, not turning back but turning his head, his eyes somewhere above and miles away from her. Then he looked down, back into her eyes as if returning from a long way away.

"I told you. It was nothing."

"Not to me," she said.

She took a step closer to him, What could she do to impress upon him what his actions meant to her? Acting on instinct, she rose up onto her toes to try to match his height, lifting her face to kiss him. He saw her intent and she felt as much as heard him say 'no.' His eyes and his body recoiled.

But as she gasped a reaction he paused, looked beyond her, whispered a brief: "Oh!" and then gently put his arms out and drew her to him. Something had changed, she knew it. She drew in a tremulous breath.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and now he was smiling at her. A charming smile that melted her bones. "Everyone who knows me will assure you I have no social graces."

He gathered her softly into his coat then, whispered his lips across hers and smiled properly into her eyes. His magnetism left her breathless. Especially when he slowly and deliberately kissed the edge of her chin, leaving her beaming up at him like an idiot, She knew she was doing it, but she couldn't do anything about it.

"Invite me up to your room," he commanded silkily, beguiling her, stepping back slightly and raising his voice. There was no mistaking his intent from the now seductive drive of that mesmeric baritone. A voice he knew how to use to good effect. She wondered fleetingly if he had a beautiful singing voice as well?.

"Wha - what?" she pulled back against his hold, surprised, suddenly realising what he had said. But he easily tugged her back, still smiling warmly into her eyes, drawing her close up to him again, wrapping his arms around her back so she could feel his lean strength against the full length of her body

. "You're a fast worker!"

"Because you are beautiful!" he laughed down into her eyes and she thought her heart would melt. But this was her guardian angel. This couldn't be real! Could it?

"And I am irresistible," he stated, laughing and running butterfly kisses along her jaw.

As his lips reached her ear lobe and she shuddered, he whispered into her ear, in a very different and very businesslike voice:

"We are being watched. Make a show of inviting me to your room. Make it obvious you want me with you. But only so I can protect you from the people determined to take that violin from you."

She gasped and looked into his eyes. Hard and cold again. Her dark angel.

"Come," she said simply, obeying, listening to the voice of instinct noiw, tugging his arm with one hand and sketching her fingertips across his cheek with the other. "I need you with me tonight. Don't argue. Just come."

Fear and reaction were at war with something else, and she dared not analyse either.

She smiled at him, unused to seduction and flirtation, clung tight to his arm and did not let it go as they crossed the pavement and passed through the revolving doors. She did not look directly at the two men she could see across the road on the edge of her vision.

Two men looking at her. Two men she did not know and instinct cried out at her not to trust herself to look at again. A shiver went down her spine. She did not take her eyes off Sherlock Holmes. Or let go of his arm.

 _Angels of light deliver us,_ she thought. _And this one plays the violin._

END

 **Author's note:** This is a oneshot. But might yet become an opening chapter to something else. Instinct tells me Sherlock not only plays a Guarneri himself, but that it was his mother's; and before that his grandfather's. The Vernet side of the family, perhaps?


End file.
